To The Dawn
by CookingKiller
Summary: -Shawn/Marty- 'It's the first time in forever, it's the first time since that night that you think of comforting him, that way. The way you'd comfort her.'


Trying myself at the pairing, much like I did Shawn/Cena.

Set after their big fight (with Marty's version in mind, which is different from the one you get in Heartbreak & Triumph, and wonderfully more angsty).

* * *

From under the sheets, Shawn's voice sounds rougher than it's already becoming. You still remember, those times Shawn was still a kid, pretty much, some kid with high-raise pants who followed the big guys around, asking for beers, more beers, and... And now you're not kids anymore, you're not having fun anymore. Now you have nice boots made for walking. Shawn even grew up enough to have a nice wife – but he doesn't love her, not that much. You know that.

Maybe you know because of that night in New York, the one with the chicks everywhere, kissing you everywhere, and with the pair of blue eyes standing out amid the crowd, and a voice that sounded louder than all the music and the noise, only to you. That night ended with the both of you shitfaced.

When everything you want to do sounds like a good idea.

When everything you do is natural.

When Shawn's stubble isn't disturbing on your own skin – still, it's gonna get reddish – and his lips don't taste any different than your girflfriend's. And when was the last time you'd kissed her?

No, they were. Different. They were warmer, you found, they were warmer and more alive.

Shawn waited for your tongues to be done sliding over each others to ask, somewhat offended, somewhat confused, "what the fuck are you doing?" And you didn't answer. What the fuck _were_ you doing? What the fuck was he doing, too?

You had no idea. You have no idea.

And after all that, here you are, morning after one of the worse days of your rocking life now, the day everything crumbles down.

So you try to make it better, you try to tell him to get up, and always get insulted, always get told to fuck off.

It's the first time in forever, it's the first time since that night that you think of comforting him, that way. The way you'd comfort her. Only she wouldn't have bruises to be kissed on, or bruises you caused yourself. You even see it in your head, what you could do.

So, instead of fucking off, you catch the sheet and throw it away – Shawn tries to cling to it.

"Shawn," you say, voice calm.

"Fuck you," he says, voice wobbly.

"Come on."

If it wasn't for all those muscles, it'd be easy to pretend. That long, blond, curly hair could belong to anyone, it could belong to a woman. But you know it's him, you feel it's him when you rest your hand on his bare shoulder. You're hesitating. After too many 'fuck you' it's going to come down to fists. Again.

God, not again.

At least today, there isn't anyone to piss you off. Nobody has their hand in Shawn's hair, their hand on Shawn's cheek, their hand all over Shawn. Their mind stuck on Shawn. Their mouth rambling on and on about Shawn. Their mouth on Shawn's cheek, too, and maybe in Shawn's hair. He'd been all over him. And you hated it.

You also deserved some attention. The Rockers were a team. It was the both of you, or nothing. The Rockers...were a team. You were jealous. And Shawn let himself be touched all over like that, without saying anything, grinning like an idiot. No _what the fuck are you doing_ for Piper. Mister Piper. You were jealous of that, too.

Your hand stays there, not pushed off. You give a squeeze.

"Shawn, come on. We gotta get to work."

"I said..." He turns his head. One eye is glistening, and stabbing you. Bruises redden the skin around it. One of his pretty lips doesn't look so pretty anymore. And it's your fault. "...fuck you."

"Look, I'm sorry I hit you."

The side of his face is back under his arm, in the dark. He doesn't shrug off your hand.

"I'm sorry about everything. The whole fucking thing. Can you get up, now?"

Nothing.

"I'm going without you."

You know he hates being alone.

"Shawn..."

This time he turns completely around, showing you his face, his body, and their state. You wince. You're not hurting anywhere, but you're the one wincing. Your fingers tighten on his shoulder. They're there, still. "I can't go to fucking work like that!" he yells.

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care." Both eyes are shining. He'd probably like to cry, you think. Shawn is one of those guys who cry. You're one of those guys who want to comfort him. "I still can't go."

You grab his other shoulder, one knee on the bed for balance. Want to tell him that none of that matters, that you'll explain everything to Vince, the make-up will hide most of it, everything will be fine. "Remember New York?"

"What?"

Your faces are closer than before. His eyes are so blue... "New York. The party with the hundreds of chicks. You were hung over for days."

"What about it?" he asks, but he knows. "What does it have to do with your fist in my fucking face?"

"Lot of things..." you mumble. Your eyes lower. No idea what to say next. No idea. It's like the day you asked your girlfriend if she wanted to move in with you. She was there. She was listening. You loved her. You had something simple but meaningful to say. And you had no idea how to say it.

Shawn clears his throat. "It was nothing like that." You look back up, raising your eyebrows. He's not looking back. "Me and Piper, we didn't...you know. It wasn't... I mean... If you..." His own words seem to annoy him. And all you can do is laugh. That seems to annoy him, too. "What's so fucking funny?"

"Never thought you two went to second base, alright?" One last chuckle.

"Then what?"

"Didn't like it." He stares. "Him all over you, like that. I didn't like it."

He stares some more. "Big fucking deal."

Your hands finally leave his shoulders. The marks of your fingers fade quickly. "Right." You force out another chuckle. "So come on, get up. Vince will understand. I'll explain—"

"What part of 'fuck you' do you have trouble getting?"

You sigh. "So you're never going to forgive me." As if it was only your fault. It's not only your fault. Even if you kind of feel it is, yourself.

Shawn doesn't answer anything. He searches for the discarded sheet, drags it back to bed, and hides from you. Well, fuck it.

You start packing your stuff. There's not much of it. At some point, your girlfriend calls you. The usual chitchat. Under the sheets, Shawn makes no sound. No movement. No life. When you think he seemed so much more alive than her, then. You wanted more of it. Were already drunk, and he made you high. You suddenly wonder if you were his first guy.

When you're about to turn the knob, the rough, muffled voice says: "about New York."

"What about it?" You laugh again, internally. "What does it have to do with my fist —"

"You never said what the fuck you were doing."

It's getting late. You can't ponder things to say. And you never have any idea. Remains the obvious. "Uh, I was kissing you." You take the time to swallow. It's harder than you thought it'd be. "And what the fuck were you doing?"

You wait. Nothing. One more second. Nothing. Can't even hear his breathing. So you turn the knob, open the door, and get out, closing the door on him.


End file.
